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mumbling bumbling baby strollers full
the dull circle of life
flexible moralities
late night tuesdays
brown eyes, grandfather-like face.
too lacking to continue
another engagement, ring finger
expensive white dresses heaped in dusty piles of time.
another week goes by
filled with old and new flat people
not what you thought they were
insulting the men you want to love
ignoring everyone else;
it’s all going very well.

 

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The old men in the old country
die with unannounced poison in their bones
cheeks turning red to black,
far past rosy vodka friendliness
whispered slurs of slipping away
wrapped in the same white sheets they were born on
surrounded by ancient grandmother pillars of pillows
soon to be buried next to all previous generations
under neon-colored plastic flowers
and broken china cups of rain water to eternally sip
worn out weary legs bent under hay-making shoulders
rheumy watery eyes and lotion-less skin
big belly gut heaving from the lung stress
sitting splayed on the one one person-sized mattress
thinking of his father
thinking of me
thinking of nothing
semi-encircled by the entire village family
throwing arms in the air clutching vodka swallows;
nothing much is different on this his last day.